Malfoy Marked
by nyxxxxx
Summary: Due to work Hermione takes a trip for research purposes. After seeing someone unexpected she gets brutal revenge for the past. Dark fic. Rated M for a reason. Betaed by the lovely poetintraining576. More warnings inside.
1. A five am wake up call

Malfoy Marked

_Disclaimer:__J.K. Rowling still owns Harry Potter, so __I own nothing but the plot__. __I am making no money from this__ story, and I intend no copyright infringement__. _

_A/N: __As always__,__ constructive feedback is most welcome. I intend to make this a multi-chapter __story__. Although I have it outlined__,__ the story is not fully written __yet; however,__ I aim to post a chapter a week provided readers like my idea. At the end of each chapter I'll ask you questions relat__ed__ to the story. Please be kind enough to let me know your thoughts._

_Warnings: I intend for this to get pretty dark with scenes violent and or sexual in nature as well as bad language. If you're not into __violence/sexual innuendo/language, then this may not be a story that you enjoy. Some characters' personalities have been altered in that certain traits are heightened or played down. __Fan__s__ of Lucius__ Malfoy__ proceed with caution. __Also, this story may__ contain Ron bashing__,__ but __it will be__ mild. This is canon for the most part but breaks away __near __the end of Deathly Hallows._

Five in the morning on a Monday was most assuredly _not_ the ideal time to be woken up. Working late shifts recently, Hermione had become unaccustomed to the hours following dawn. Not yet summer, the sky outside would still be dark if she cared to look. That combined with the knowledge that there was a busy day ahead had left Hermione in a foul mood that only promised to get worse as the day wore on. And, Hermione thought with a deep-set frown on her face, if waking up at five a.m. wasn't bad enough, her frequent nightmares of the Second Wizarding War tended to be to what she awoke. Covered in a sheen of cold sweat, Hermione lay there in the dark waiting for her heart beat and her laboured breathing to slow.

At least, she thought with a quick glance around the dark bedroom, she hadn't broken anything this time. Last week, when she'd woken up screaming she'd destroyed a vase Luna had given her as a congratulations gift when she'd first joined the St Mungo's research team. The vase had been a favourite of hers and cleaning the tiny pieces of broken porcelain had been disheartening; the shards had simply been too small for Hermione to even think of using a _Reparo_. Pity it was gone. After that incident, Hermione had stripped the bedside table of anything that could break should she lash out while in the cloak of sleep.

It was now seven years after the Second Wizarding War, and Hermione had begun to fear there would never be an end to the nightmares that plagued her. During the nights that she awoke screaming, she often relived the steely burn of Bellatrix Lestrange carving her flesh, reminding her she was a 'Mudblood.' Or, she would dream of the Dark Mark hovering over her house only to find her parents dead, eyes glazed over, no blood spilt, no bruises, only terror. Clutching her left forearm, Hermione could feel the raised scars, and hot tears began to leak from her eyes.

Then of course, there was the fear that clutched her when she thought of those few Death Eaters, still at large. Furious that the Golden Trio had defeated their beloved Dark Lord, they had fled vowing to retaliate, but as months passed, the Ministry hunted the solitary Death Eaters and treated them to a Dementor's kiss. Nearly a year after the war, Hermione restored her parents memories and had brought them back to England.

More tears rolled down Hermione's cheek as she remembered with her conscious mind what had happened next. Only weeks after her parents' return to their homeland, the Dark Mark appeared over her childhood home, and Hermione found both her parents dead in the living room. She never found out which Death eater was responsible. Insufficient leads left nothing to track. What did it matter? They were all to blame regardless, each one as vile as the next.

Lost in despair, Hermione withdrew from everyone she knew, even Ron who tried to comfort her in any way he could. Her unwillingness to even hold his hand and let him hug and kiss her, and his lack of understanding about her need to grieve privately placed a rift between them. Their tentative but promising relationship proceeded to crumble and break down after that. Now, any contact between them was sparse. Hermione occasionally asked Harry how her old red-haired friend fared, but she and Ron had severed the lines of communication between them. Even after her break-up with Ron, many of Hermione's close relationships suffered greatly. Only Harry, his wife Luna, and to a slightly lesser degree Neville remained in her wary confidence.

Besides, Hermione thought defensively as she rolled out of bed and grabbed her wand from beneath her pillow, long hours as a researcher at St Mungo's made an active social life near impossible. And since her work soothed her, Hermione didn't complain about working sixty or more hours a week. Surrounded by the smell of worn leather texts and the distinct clinical cleanliness of the archives, Hermione obtained some semblance of peace. She could research for hours on end and had even assisted in creating a charm that would stop an open wound from closing up before it could be properly cleaned to prevent infection. The medical community hailed it as a miracle, but Hermione knew some used it for ill; she could only imagine the deadly effects it would have when combined with the _Sectumsempra_ curse Harry had discovered his sixth year.

Hermione remembered when she first joined the staff of St Mungo's; people assumed she'd become a healing researcher to help those afflicted by the war. It seemed natural that one of the Golden Trio, a war hero—practically a god—would want to serve the people. Unfortunately, this war hero status seemed to imply that privacy was forfeit. People Hermione had never met seemed privy to the most intimate details of her life, but these strangers never realized, never _cared_ that she was still suffering. In the beginning Hermione toyed with the idea of letting in any and all that asked the less palatable side to surviving. With a sigh, Hermione made her bed, fluffed her pillow, and closed the bedroom door behind her. There were, after all advantages to keeping _some_ things private.

As Hermione strolled toward the kitchen, she saw a picture of her, Harry, and Luna. Luna gazed off into the distance dreamily, Harry had his arm around her and Hermione was on the other side of Harry, leaning into him, laughing. Hermione picked up the photograph and watched as Luna's hair blew into Harry's face so that he began laughing. With a smile, Hermione replaced the picture and thought back to how that whole relationship started.

Harry and Luna married several years ago after Harry and Ginny had a violent argument. He'd soon realized that marrying a Weasley was also not for him. Hermione thought Luna and Harry were perfect together, so when she stood next to the blonde girl at the wedding ceremony as the Maid of Honour, she'd smiled, genuinely happy that her two friends were getting married.

Hermione started up her espresso machine and glanced around her neat, but impersonal flat. On the kitchen island sat a book about the _Erzulie bloom _, the rare and magical flower she'd recently been assigned to study. Needless to say, it had not been a lifelong goal of hers to study the flower, especially since it would require travel to the United States. Yet, Hermione knew she would be thorough; she never took research lightly, even if it was a topic in which she had little interest. As if that weren't enough, her superiors and Harry had reminded her numerous times to find time to relax while in New Orleans. Relax while on a research trip in the United States no less? That was a laughable idea. Nothing would be attained by idling away valuable hours partaking in Mardi Gras.

Pouring herself a cup of coffee from the espresso machine, Hermione glanced at the silver and white clock on the wall opposite her. In a little under an hour, a Portkey would take her to Louisiana. It sat right next to the _Erzulie bloom_ book, a rusty old cigarette case. But, Hermione thought with a frown, her superiors hadn't bothered to mention a return date. Not that it mattered since Crookshanks had died the previous year; her Muggle London flat would simply sit empty until her return. Still, she wished someone would at least give her an idea of how long she would be gone—she _did _have a life here in England.

Hermione sighed and placed her empty coffee mug in the sink, cast a cleaning charm and padded to the living room, still in her negligee. As she rounded the corner, she saw bright green flames of the Floo. _Shit._ Hermione clutched her vine wand even tighter, only to lower her hand when she saw that her visitor was Harry.

"Harry James Potter," Hermione scolded, trying to cover herself. Why did she leave her dressing gown in her bedroom? "Don't you know better than to arrive here unannounced, especially at this time of the morning? I might have hexed you."

Harry grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. You know I wouldn't come unless it was important; after all, I'm usually at work myself."

With a sigh, Hermione rolled her eyes. "Give me a minute to get dressed, and then you can tell me why you're here." As she headed back to her bedroom, she called, "There should still be some coffee in the espresso machine. You know where the clean mugs are—help yourself!"

Jumping into the shower, Hermione quickly washed herself and threw on some clothes—a charcoal pencil skirt, a fuchsia blouse, and pointy black pumps—and hurried back to the kitchen to see Harry leaning against the counter, a cup of coffee in his hand. He glanced up from the Daily Prophet he was reading to see an out-of-breath Hermione. Harry chuckled, and Hermione huffed in annoyance.

"You know, my mood isn't helped by the fact that I barely slept last night," Hermione grumbled, placing a hand on the green granite of the kitchen island.

A sympathetic look crossed Harry's face. "You had another nightmare last night, didn't you?"

"It was about my parents." Hermione was sure a pained look crossed her face, and Harry set aside his mug and enveloped her in a hug.

Hermione withdrew from his embrace, but Harry left his hands on her shoulders. "Are you going to be okay for this trip?" he asked. She nodded and quickly pushed all her nightmares away and locked them into a corner of her mind. Honestly, she needed a pensieve.

"Never better," she said, plastering a smile on her face, shaking Harry's hands away. "Now, what is it you wanted? You said your goodbyes to me yesterday morning."

As another sheepish smile crossed Harry's face, Hermione groaned inwardly. She would bet anyone ten galleons that he wanted her to do something for him, and Hermione was sure it was something in which she'd rather not be involved.

"Well," he said, shifting his weight, "Molly came to Grimmauld Place yesterday. Arthur and I left her talking with Luna about pudding recipes, and when we returned for our walk, full-scale plans for a baby shower were underway."

Hermione frowned. "Molly's planning Luna's baby shower?"

Harry sighed. "I think part of it is that Molly's been itching for another Weasley get-together—she's taken Luna under her wing ever since we got married, since Luna's mother has died—well, anyway, will you come?"

"Harry," Hermione said, now staring at him in disbelief, "you couldn't have asked me this via owl? _Besides,_ you of all people know that Molly and I haven't gotten along ever since Ron and I broke up."

"If I'd sent this to you via owl, you know you wouldn't have agreed to come. If I'd caught you once you returned from your trip, you would have said you hadn't been given enough notice. And Hermione I know you don't get along well with Molly, Hermione, honestly, I do—but you try saying no to that woman and see how far you get, she's determined to plan Luna's shower—and it's been so long since Luna and everyone else has seen you. It seems you only leave the apartment for work-related reasons anymore."

Hermione felt her body stiffen at Harry's words. "Harry," she said, her voice clipped, "I thought we agreed not to discuss that. You know how busy I am with work."

As Harry tried to hide his pain and pity, Hermione saw the frustration in his green eyes. She knew she'd withdrawn into herself, but it was easier that way. The nightmares were difficult to explain to anyone, and instead of getting better with time, they only grew worse. How could she burden any friend with that knowledge? Harry had threatened to take her to St Mungo's as a patient if she didn't tell him why she slowly stopped calling, stopped owling, stopped going out to parties and bars.

But now, looking at Harry's pleading look, Hermione was torn. Would she rather endure the chilling prospect of such an ordeal or disappoint those that had tried to support her by not going to some stupid party? Hermione snorted inwardly. Some Gryffindor she was, paralysed by the fear that someone might mention events from the war. Bile rose up in her throat at her own cowardice.

"I—I just don't know, Harry. I mean, I'm glad that Luna wants me there, but I'm not sure I could cope with Molly. Last time ended in a shouting match. You may have escaped Molly's wrath after breaking up with Ginny, but for some reason she faults me for my breakup with Ron. Courtesy of that harpy Lavender Brown no doubt. I think that meddlesome bint soured Molly's opinion of me."

Hermione couldn't help but be somewhat resentful, even years later. While she didn't mind that Lavender had always wanted Ron for her own, it angered her that the little whore told Molly Weasley lies in the process. Now, every time she saw the Weasley family, Lavender—Ron's girlfriend—would glare at her, Molly would glare at her, Ginny would glare at her…she just didn't see the point anymore.

"Well," Harry said, after a moment's pause. "Arthur's still very fond of you, Hermione. A word to Molly from him before the shower should smooth things over."

Hermione ignored that comment. "And you will be doing what, exactly? 'Girls only' is the standard policy for this kind of thing. Where will you be when Molly's yelling at me for the millionth time, hmm?" Again, Harry looked sheepish.

"Seamus will be back from visiting some family in Ireland, and he persuaded us into a gathering of our own. He wants us to hit Hogsmeade hard starting with The Three Broomsticks. Merlin knows how much Firewhiskey I'll be forced to consume," he drawled, rolling his eyes. Hermione giggled, and then checked the clock to realize she only had fifteen minutes until her Portkey left, and she still had to grab her beaded purse—which was, with an Undetectable Extension Charm, her suitcase and only baggage.

"Listen, Harry, can we do this when I get back? I'm not trying to be evasive, but I don't fancy missing my Portkey. It was murder getting this one as it was. I'll owl you as soon as I get settled."

"You promise?" he asked, raising a dark brow, and Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes.

"Yes, I do, Harry. You know I wouldn't say something if I didn't mean it."

Harry cleared his throat. "Right. Well, I'd best be off so you don't miss your Portkey." He leaned in to give her a hug, and Hermione, for once, returned it.

Glancing again at the wall clock, Hermione began to fret. Twelve minutes.

"Why do they need to send you to America of all places anyway, Hermione?" Harry asked as they walked to the living room. To anyone else it would seem an innocent and curious question, but Hermione knew Harry wasn't thrilled about her being gone so long.

Eleven minutes. Hermione was going to kill Harry if she missed her Portkey. "The flower they want me to study, the _Erzulie bloom_, is native to that area and very rare. Muggles are unaware that it exists since its natural aura makes it visible only to people with magical blood. It's like a Fidelius charm without a Secret-Keeper."

Harry sighed. "I know you have to go, but I don't pretend to like it. Having you so far away makes me nervous. Besides, isn't Louisiana full of swamps?"

"Well, yes," Hermione said, glancing up nervously at the clock again, "but I'm headed to New Orleans—that part is a city. The swamps are outside New Orleans."

"Oh!" Harry exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "Isn't that Mardy—erm, that Mardy grey—that _carnival thing_—over there right now?"

Rolling her eyes, Hermione nodded. "It's Mardi Gras, and yes, Harry, it is, but I've had enough of people walking around in masks."

To tell the truth, she was a bit annoyed that St Mungo's was sending her to this Merlin forsaken place right when hordes of people would don masks, perhaps even cloaks. And while she knew that the Mardi Gras masks were colourful and lively—the complete opposite of the Death Eater masks—the idea of masking oneself reminded her of the dark times that still haunted her dreams.

Harry grimaced. "I can imagine."

Glancing at the living room clock, Hermione bit her lip. "Well, my Portkey leaves in five minutes. I better grab my bag and get ready to go. Look after yourself, Harry, and don't worry about me so."

With a chuckle, he hugged Hermione briefly. "Same goes for you, Hermione, and don't forget about the baby shower! By the way, Luna wants everyone to wear blue. She says the baby will like it since she's convinced it's going to be a boy. And," he said, his expression growing stern, "I'll be waiting for your owl."

"All right," she promised. She kissed Harry lightly on the cheek, grabbed her purse and rushed back to the kitchen to clutch her book on the _Erzulie bloom_ and the rusty old cigarette holder. As she heard a whoosh of flames from the next room, Hermione felt the familiar pulling on her navel as the Portkey activated. With an excited clench in her stomach, she was off to the Crescent City.

_A/N__: Okay, so here are my questions:_

_Hermione__'__s deterioration is steady at this point. I'll be making it speed up rapidly in __the __future __since __certain events __will be__ a catalyst for a breakdown of sorts. Do you think her emotional state is believable so far?_

_Once there__,__ what things about New Orleans would you like me to include in __future__ chapters?_


	2. The Crescent city

_A/N: Same warnings as before—possible violence, sex, language. Here's chapter two; I hope you like it._

Chapter Two: The Crescent City

Blistering heat greeted Hermione as she was unceremoniously dumped in the middle of a very crowded Jackson Square. The lazy yet vibrant atmosphere hit her like a stunning spell to the chest. The first thing Hermione noted was the unbearable, sweltering humidity. The air was thick with it, making everything seem hazy and sticky. Only after Hermione had adjusted to the hazy stickiness did she see the melding of lush plant life amongst the decedent decay of New Orleans. But, as Hermione surveyed her surroundings, she realized that if she didn't change locations quickly, some unsuspecting Muggle was going to have a coronary at seeing her standing on the equestrian statue which was near impossible to climb. Thankfully, though it provided cover as Hermione apparated to a shaded corner of the square where she could see all the action. It also, she noted, provided her a better view of the statues.

They really were magnificent—bronze and tall, but they didn't compare to the sculptures housed in the Ministry of Magic. Well, really, few sculptures were as grand as those, Hermione mused as she began walking around the square. As she strolled, she noticed the St Louis Cathedral in the distance. Perhaps when she was in a better frame of mind, she would visit it.

As Hermione's stomach growled, she realized she hadn't eaten earlier, and although she had a cup of espresso earlier in the morning, another one wouldn't hurt—she still felt groggy. Since the French quarter of New Orleans, where she was, was littered with cafes and bars, Hermione doubted finding a place with a decent cup of coffee and a good sandwich would be difficult. Throwing the now useless cigarette tin in the trash, Hermione cast a quick cooling charm against the heat and headed towards Bourbon Street.

Navigating through the French Quarter, Hermione caught a whiff of gumbo from a local restaurant, and felt her stomach churn. Though she wanted to try local cuisine, she should perhaps avoid that place; if she became sick, researching would be bloody difficult. She quickly moved past the business and turned a corner to see olive green street cars filled with tourists pointing every which way. Along this street, tawdry souvenir shops selling over priced t-shirts and other sundry trinkets lined both sides, and even yards away, Hermione could hear vendors shouting prices and tourists screaming in indignation. God, she needed coffee—she could feel a headache coming on. Thankfully, she saw two policemen on horseback a few yards away from her; it was their duty to help citizens, right? And right now, Hermione desperately needed help finding a good cup of coffee, and, she added belatedly, some good food.

"Officers," she said, dashing over to the pair of them, "sorry to disturb you, but do you know where the nearest place to get a decent cup of coffee is?"

Stopping to look at the woman speaking to them, the older, darker haired man pointed down the street, the way that Hermione had come.

"Why don't you try Cafe Beignet, miss? Their chicory coffee has a nice kick," he said, smiling at her.

"I will—thank you for your assistance." Both policemen nodded and gave small, polite bows as Hermione turned and headed for the aforementioned café, walking as quickly as possible. Pushing the door open, a warm and bitter smell greeted her, and she found a clean table with a single chair after ordering an espresso—dark roast—and a beignet.

Once Hermione had her derriere firmly planted in the cafe's white iron chair, she closed her eyes and inhaled the smell before sipping her coffee. Sugar would only ruin the taste. With a sigh, Hermione stirred her coffee, and glanced around the café—so what if it was crowded? The coffee was worth it. Although, Hermione thought, she would prefer that the elderly Cajun man at the next table would stop looking at her. Ripping into her fresh beignet, Hermione saw the man angle his chair toward her, but she ignored him—lively jazz music came from an ancient jukebox across the venue, and Hermione had her notes on the Erzulie flower to attend to as well. Sighing, she pulled out her book and work notes and began sorting them, glancing through interesting information. The Erzulie bloom only propagated in the swamp lands of a tiny island south of New Orleans called Honey Island, Hermione read.

Leaning back in her chair, Hermione tapped a pen against her chin as she tried to remember what she knew about Honey Island—it was named for its massive bee population, she knew, and the isle had plenty of myths surrounding it. One that she had shared with Harry was about the swamp monster on Honey Island… but surely that was only urban legend. Shaking her head, Hermione returned to her notes and grimaced. It seemed she would have to brave the swamps in order to get near the Erzulie flower, and it was imperative that she take a soil sample. It would give Hermione a good clue as to why the flower only flourished on the island and nowhere else in the world. Although, she realized thoughtfully, the bloom's limited niche might be due to a magical aura. However, her musings were disrupted when the man at the next table—the elderly Cajun one—tapped her on the shoulder. She spun around to face him.

"Going to see Tainted Keitre, _ma chérie_?" he asked conversationally, pointing at the notes on her table. "Ah don't tink dat's a good idea what with all dat talk if ya ax me. Sha, seems a shame, pretty ting like you going dere."

"Why isn't it a good idea?" Hermione asked, her voice clipped; the man had been reading over her work notes, no doubt. Despite the fact that she herself was inquisitive by nature, Hermione felt irritated by the man's curiosity.

"Nuttin, nuttin at all _chérie_, only dem folks dat is going in dere dis last few years, well some dey don't come out. Ol' Henri Louviere tinks you is better of stayin' ohm, _chérie_."

Hermione had heard of the legends of the Honey Island swamp monster or Tainted Keitre as local Cajun's nicknamed it. Ha! Silly superstitions about some over grown yeti weren't enough to spook this witch. People going missing though, that was new.

"Thank you for your concern, Mr Louviere," Hermione replied, forcing a smile, "but I think I can look after myself."

Sweeping up her work notes and book, she shoved them into her purse, and drained her cup of espresso before leaving the café, her half-eaten beignet in hand. As the bell attached to the entrance clanged behind her, Hermione exhaled in relief, wishing fervently that the rest of New Orleans' natives would be less friendly. _Ma chérie_, indeed!

Her stomach and caffeine addiction now equally satisfied, Hermione began walking to the hotel. It was just off Bourbon Street, she knew. After stopping to ask a few locals for directions, she stood in front of a large, white plantation-style hotel. Well, since Hermione only had the one bag, it made little sense to put her things in the room… but if she was going to tour the island, she should change clothes. She walked decisively into the lobby, got her room key, and headed to the third floor where her three-room suite with balcony awaited her.

As Mardi Gras neared, Hermione knew she would be able to see the preparations from her balcony, and at the thought, she winced. Why couldn't this trip simply be business, without distractions? Without the thought of Luna's baby shower hanging over her head, and certainly without her nightmares bothering her. Hermione would do most anything to make those go away permanently.

Locking the door shut behind her, Hermione surveyed her temporary living space. It was nice, she thought, although the modern white sofa had a stain in the corner, and one of the boring seascapes hung crookedly on the wall. Putting her purse on the couch, Hermione undressed and unpacked her bag so she could find more suitable clothing: a green t-shirt, stained khaki shorts, and hiking boots. Good God, she looked like a tourist.

Hermione checked the clock as she pulled her hair into a ponytail, swore, and grabbed her bag, dashing out of the suite. If she was going to survey the isle today, she needed to arrive there soon. She had never been to Honey Island before but decided to apparate there directly: destination, deliberation, determination.

Opening her eyes, she saw a thick fog ahead of her and gnarled cypress trees around her, and the scent of azaleas lingered in the air. The Erzulie flower wouldn't be too far away, and since a Muggle repulsion charm was in effect for this part of the swamp, Hermione could trek on foot to find what she sought. She'd avoid most of the… 'charming'… wildlife that way, and if she did encounter a creature, she had her wand in hand, ready to use.

Plucking up her courage and opening her map, Hermione began to wander around the island. After an hour of scouring the island, she found the flower, standing as bold as a psychotic killer drenched in his victim's warm blood.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, as she rushed forward to examine it. The petals alternated between a silky crimson and a velvety black and golden leaves surrounded them. But, Hermione noted, it was a deathly beauty; as she well knew from her studies, any person who uttered a lie while holding the flower would die immediately.

But more than that, Hermione knew the flower reacted to sound, specifically spoken words. Pulling out her book on the flower, Hermione began flipping through until she found the page she wanted—the etymology of Erzulie. According to the book, the Erzulie flower gained its name from the Voudon goddess, Erzulie, who could be nurturing and protective one minute, and destructive and vengeful the next, much like the flower.

Hermione flipped through her book, looking for the known properties of the flower—reacts to sound, lethal if the holder utters a lie—and suddenly, Hermione had a burst of inspiration. Muggle and magical plants alike used carbon dioxide to produce oxygen through photosynthesis, and a person produced the most carbon dioxide when expelling air… like when singing! Perhaps, since the Erzulie flower already showed it reacted to sound, then perhaps it would be less resistive to her taking a sample if she sang to it—it might even 'fall asleep'! The question was, what tune would placate the damn thing? If she sang a song the flower didn't like, Hermione feared it might poison her out of annoyance. Tying the boat to a tree root, Hermione got out and sat cross-legged on a firm, dry patch of land, a safe distance away from the flower and started to sing.

She sang for close to an hour, trying everything—jazz, rock, lullabies, pop, musical theatre—but nothing worked. Why wouldn't the damn flower fall asleep? As a last resort, Hermione began humming and then singing a song she often heard on the Muggle radio that caused Ron to drift off every time he listened to it:

"_You know I can't smile without you_

_I can't smile without you_

_I can't laugh_

_And I can't sing_

_I'm finding it hard to do anything__."_

Unbelievable! No sooner had Hermione started on the first lyrics of "Can't Smile Without You," than the blasted flower gave its own version of a yawn and started curling in on itself, going into hibernation. That was it! The same flower that was deadlier than Belladonna and could possibly be a cure for prolonged suffering under the Cruciatus curse, liked Barry Manilow! Reaching into her bag, Hermione continued to sing the next lines while cutting samples of the plant and storing them in sealed tubes to preserve them.

"_You see I feel sad when you're sad_

_I feel glad when you're glad_

_If you only knew what I'm_

_G__oing through_

_I just can't smile without you__."_

As Hermione continued singing and gathering samples, the sky around her began to darken. Anxious to get off the unfamiliar island, she began to hurry and cut her last sample, only to sense a glowing in her right eye.

That light hadn't been there before.

Cursing, Hermione stuffed her last sample in a tube and began to pack her things in her bag, carefully and quickly. She didn't know what that light belonged to, but she didn't want to find out—no one was supposed to be out here—damn, this was bad. Hermione supposed she could disapparate immediately, but she realized her wand was on the ground—she must have dropped it while cutting samples—shit, shit, shit! As she crouched low to find her wand, she hoped she would be out of the range of vision—the light was getting closer, it looked like a lantern, and a mysterious figure was at the end of it—oh, shit!

After a moment, Hermione found her wand, but now it was too late to apparate—if she came here again to take more samples, she might run into this person: no, the better option was to hide. Wedging herself in-between the roots of two cypress trees, Hermione felt her adrenaline pumping. The figure continued to approach, pushing away leaves of the cypress—Hermione felt her heart beating out of her chest and hoped her hiding spot was good enough—but suddenly she stopped breathing.

As the person shifted aside a few cypress leaves only a few feet from where Hermione hid, she caught a glimpse of a long black wand and the scowling face of none other than Lucius Malfoy.

_A/N: All the places in the New Orleans area that I described in the story are true to life (as far as I am aware). The Cajun dialect used by Henri is as accurate as I was able to make. Lyrics from "Can't Smile Without You" obviously belong to Barry Manilow. The Ezulie flower is my own creation but the name does indeed belong to a Voudon goddess. The Legend of the Honey Island Swamp Monster does exist; however, I have no idea if people ever go missing there. Does the Honey Island swamp monster exist? I don't know—ask him!_

_Ok, here are my questions for you:_

_What do you think Hermione's immediate reaction to seeing Lucius should be?_

_Why do you think Lucius is there?_


End file.
